Losing The Silence
by Iana Niniel
Summary: (movieverse) In which a reluctant heir of Kings sees a shadow from his past... and a glimpse of the man beneath.


.::Losing The Silence::.  
  
Rivendell. So I return, return to the halls that have sheltered my childhood and guarded my youth. The halls that I have left, grown to manhood, the halls that saw the Evenstar rise, the halls that guarded my love in their eternal autumn. And dearly do I love them although there were days their unstained beauty filled my heart with bitterness. There were days that I wanted to hate them, days that I wished to leave them behind forever never to return. And yet I return, yet I come back and my heart rejoices for although I have tried hard to find peace elsewhere in truth this is my home, my home I return to to find rest, to find my strength for strength I will need in the days that lie ahead. I return once more for the shadow of doom lengthens and the hour grows late. But the silence of Imladris' halls never fails to touch my heart, never fails to drive away the darkness that lingers in my soul and the fear of the things to come. To these halls I return hoping that in their silence I will find my strength. But silence it seems I cannot find, not even here.   
  
---  
  
He is tall, taller maybe than myself. I do not know. But I recognize his uniform even though I'm too far away to distinguish the silver patterns that line the rich fabric. I recognize it for I, too, have worn it, a long time ago, the uniform of the Guard of the White City. And I know who he his without him telling me, I know him by the pride in his eyes, so painfully familiar. So like his father. Boromir of Gondor, Denethor's heir. I feel my heart cringe at the thought and from his pale green eyes that reflect the dimmed light I can see his father staring back at me. So alike. Father and son. A single ray of sunlight is caught in his golden hair and yet there is a shadow in his gaze and I shiver.   
  
I can see his eyes glimmer with a cold amusement as he keeps observing me. Like mocking laughter without a sound. He would laugh, I know, was not his will holding him back. Would he laugh if he knew who I am? Would he dare to be as disrespectful as that? To laugh at his King? If he knew... but I am not sure I want him to know.  
  
He will learn eventually, soon, and maybe he will regret. But there's no helping it. Must it always be like this? Must it always be history repeating? I know what it will be like, I know too well how the light in his eyes will change, in disbelief and then in anger. I know the flame of pride that will dance behind the ice and I know he will defy me then. I know it all, have seen it all before, too many times. Denethor's son. So alike. So alike. And I wish I could hope for a different reaction, I wish I could hope. But then I hear Denethor's voice and I cannot.  
  
But now he is smiling and I hate to admit that it is an enchanting smile, a smile that starts in his eyes and then illuminates his whole face. Like the sunrise. And I hate to admit that it is a smile that can easily win the hearts of men, I hate to admit that I may have been wrong. I decided to hate him the moment I first saw him, hate him, I have to admit, for every little reminder of Denethor, for every single likeness be it oh so small. I wanted to hate him for all the hate his father had once borne for me. But Denethor never smiled.  
  
At last he turns away and I am grateful. He frightens me. In a way I can't explain, in a way I don't understand. And I would he had not smiled like that. I would have been content to see in him only the Son of Denethor, only the striking likeness to his father. I would have him cold and proud in my eyes. I would not have him smile like that. I would have him be the image of Denethor's youth. But Denethor never smiled.  
  
And I find I can't help but watch him as he reverently touches the shards of the broken sword, as if he could feel the power of its masters great deed still burning beneath the cold steel. It is a soldier's caress of his favourite weapon and in his gestures I can see the warrior that he is. Brave in battle, no doubt. Merciless and swift, deadly. How many has he killed in the battles he has fought, how many lives claimed with the blade of the sword that now hangs idly at his side? Denethor must be proud of his son for this is the son he has always wished for. So like himself. An heir worthy of the Stewardship. But who knows if he will ever succeed his father, who can tell? If he knew who I am I am sure he would hate me. My rival.   
  
And yet... why not let him have his way? Why not I let him be Steward as his forbears have been for so long? Here's one eager to rule, why not let him? Why not let im rule instead of a reluctant King? Boromir of Gondor. He is proud and he is strong. He is no doubt the ruler Minas Tirith needs and I feel, I see it in his eyes that he loves her more than I ever will. Too long have I been gone, too long since I last laid eyes upon the city that is mine by right. A city to be proud of, but I'm not. I have not asked for this heritage. I have never asked to be a King of Men and deep in my heart I feel I am not. It is strength and devotion that makes Kings not faded bloodlines. Strength and devotion, I lack both. He does not. Would I really mind seeing him rule in my stead?  
  
The tenderness with which he runs his calloused fingers over the broken blade of the sword of my ancestors almost resembles a lover's caress. Has this man ever desired anything else than renown and glory? Renown and glory, Denethor has no doubt taught him that they are the greatest things a man can posess, cold though they be. Denethor has never feared the cold for he is cold also. And I wonder if his son has inherited his father's cold heart as well? Sometimes I think life is easier for those who are cold, for those who do not care and do not love. Were I as cold as them maybe I would leave all doubts behind and claim at last Elendil's throne in the halls of Mundburg. Were I as cold...  
  
It won't be long and he will learn that the blade in his hands, the cold steel beneath his fingers is mine by right, that the weakness of the shattered sword is my heirloom also.  
  
He hesitates, just for a second as the sword falls to the ground, just for a heartbeat it seems and for a moment there is doubt in his eyes, doubt and something more. Silently I see a thousand emotions pass beneath the shadows, a thousand emotions and still none I can name. But I can see that his pride wins, eventually. A son of Denethor will not bow to a broken sword. A broken sword. A broken sword means weakness, a broken sword means defeat. Denethor has taught him well. Despise all weakness for weakness means defeat. But Denethor never smiled.  
  
**** 


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